What I Don't Look Like

For obvious reasons, like wanting to leave my job on my terms, not theirs (I believe that leaving a job because of a blog is called getting dooced), I have to keep this anonymous. Accordingly, I cannot provide a profile picture other than those cute little sharks - those cute little Polynesian sharks. They speak French and they don't bite.

So, for what its worth, I have been told that I look like:

I was told this by a 40 year old guy that has been smoking pot every single day since he was a junior in high school. This is the one and only thing he has ever said that makes sense.

My ex-husband thought I looked liked:

I embraced this one a little too much and even got the Reality Bites haircut. I was adorable. I totally could have kept Johnny Depp or Matt Damon. For the record, I never stole nothing.

My mom said I reminded her of:

Aww, thanks mom (I think). Although this one is looking more like Mama Judd all the time, so the reference becomes less and less appealing all the time.

I have also been told that I look like:

I got that last one most often. Although Jim Carrey would never have been my type. (And, really, Lea Thompson? Can you just live off the Caroline in the City royalties forever? I guess so.) But, in my opinion, I look like none of these people. I have the world's largest forehead - when it glows you can land planes on it. I have a big bump on my otherwise turned up little nose. Oh and there's like inches (INCHES) of space between my nose and my lips. So really I look like one of the creatures from The Twilight Zone movie (the one from the early 80s), or Beaker from the Muppets. Nevertheless, despite my true alien-like appearance, I was able to snag a husband that looks like this (for real)

and does floors. I win.

Weekend Lexapro

Follow-up to Monday's post. Yes, I'm still going there.

After spending last Saturday on the couch, I made myself snap out of it. Things needed to be cleaned (me) and people needed to be fed (one more cereal buffet for dinner and there was going to be mutiny). Admission here: I have always believed that your mental well being is, well, mental. Just determine you are going to be happy and viola!

In the face of the lay-off, sure, I cried. A lot. But I also polished the resume, applied for every possible job even tangentially related to my area of the law, and eventually any area of the law I could fake, and kept the kid fed and the clothes ironed (even the pillow cases). In the face of adversity, I fight and iron pillow cases. That's what I do.

But by Sunday afternoon, I was back to wanting to just sit on the couch under blankets to watch people cook on t.v., or perhaps fish, or perhaps paint a happy painting. Jersey Shore just seemed a little too upbeat. By Thursday, I stopped wearing eye makeup because I was crying every day without warning, for no identifiable reason. And that got me thinking - this might, at this point, be physical not just mental.

I think I have been putting on an "I'm okay" front for so long now that my brain can no longer ignore what my subconscious has been screaming behind the scenes - that it's almost been a year and I am farther from, not closer to, being an attorney again, that attorneys who used to consider me an expert on a certain area of the law are now surpassing me in their legal housekeeping. The dentist says that I am clenching my teeth so hard at night that I am cracking them. I wake up with sore arms because I am clenching my fists in my sleep. I am telling myself to just get over it, but the subconscious now wants its say, and it has been wanting that say for so long now that I think I really may have altered the chemicals in my brain to the point of clinical depression.

I understand that there are world crises underway (the atolls of French Polynesia are disappearing due to global warming - if you have ever been, you know this is unacceptable), and some Republicans seem to be thwarting health care reform just because. Whoa, did I just go all political there? My brain gets that there are bigger issues than my little ol' inability to be happy. But my body has taken over, and that's where its going.

Is this where this blog is going on a regular basis? No. But its also impossible to ignore. Accordingly, until further notice, Weekend Treat is going to be replaced with Weekend Lexapro. You can tune in if you want, or ignore the weekends. I share this journey here just for that reason - to share. I am seeking professional help (yay for Therapy Thursdays). The rest of the week's blog entries will be business as usual.

I know that I am going to be okay. My husband and son just deserve the old me back, the sweet and really happy me. So this is my story of how we are going to get there.

P.S. This is seriously my absolute favorite email regarding Monday's post: "I'd like to state for the record that that is just pure dramatic horseshit that sounds like a deleted scene from the movie Less Than Zero." That made me laugh out loud. Love the Brent Easton Ellis reference.

Everybody's talkin bout POP music

My son went straight from The Wiggles to Social Distortion. We missed the whole Radio Disney phase. Nevertheless, I do know who Miley Cirus is. She's the one who has the pimp/father and likes to mountain climb. I know who Taylor Swift is. Do you remember where you were when Kayne West slammed Taylor? I do. I was on cnn.com looking for news about health care reform but all I could find was news about "the incident." And I've heard of the Jonas brothers. They are the ones with the virgin rings.

I saw a Jonas brother video for the first time this morning on Vh1. Its no surprise he could keep his promise to be a virgin. Maybe it's because I'm old, but I just don't get the Jonas thing. The lead signer of Train - we could share a bagel. Brandon Flowers - love his manically philosophical lyrics. Are we human? Or, ARE WE dancers? Whoa. Think. On. That. (But not too long or it just starts to hurt your head.) But even if I was 12, I still don't think I would lust after a Jonas brother.

Another one I don't get is Michael Buble. You just haven't found me yet because I haven't been looking for you. Apparently you did find an Argentinian supermodel so now that the search is over (Survivor reference), get off my t.v.

And here is where I have to give snaps to the ex-husband. If the musical education of our son was left up to me, well let's just say my son would have the most uncool iPod musical library of anyone on the planet. And lets give double snaps to the new husband who lets me play The Essential Journey on each and every road trip and who puts Eye of the Tiger in my car CD player before interviews. The search really is over, baby, you were with me all the time.

Three Musings

1. I will give up my entire Kate Spade collection if you could promise me that I will always fell as good as I did after I took Nasonex for the first time this morning. Nasonex, you complete me.

2. To the guy who has the Chevy Impala in the parking lot: It's not worthy of parking across two spaces. (See It's a Chevy Impala.)

3. From time to time, my mom would show up at my door for no reason other than to bring me a Starbucks caramel macchiato. When she passed away, I mostly stopped drinking them. Now I only have them on very rare occasions so I can keep the whole experience available; the taste and smell of them make me feel like she is right there with me. I had one yesterday (See Monday's post. And it helped. Moms are the best. Even from heaven.) There are only two other times I have ordered one: (i) When I didn't get the job at the small law firm last fall even though all signs were really really good, and (ii) when my ex-husband and I were going through our divorce and, in the same phone call that he asked me for money, he told me that he was taking his girlfriend to Cabo.

Wrong Side of the Fence

I wrote this yesterday and then debated about whether I was going to post it. I decided to post it because I thought it might be helpful to share. One of the things that made me feel better when I was unable to move my ass off the couch yesterday was that I remembered similar posts by other bloggers. Shauna Glenn has been there. Heather Armstrong has been there. I'm in excellent company and it feels good to know that I am not crazy. Or we're all crazy.

I'm having trouble pulling my shit together. Since the lay-off, I have been on the fence between believing that everything is going to be okay, if not better, in the end and believing that this is all really more than I can handle.

I'm tired. Not physically; rather, I am tired of waiting for things to get better. I am ready for there to be just days now, not days where I am waiting for it all to turn around, not days where I do not feel like I am part of the human race. And I am especially tired of days like Friday:

(1) Clearing out my bank account for some big expenses that could no longer be put off [like paying my bar dues even though I am not working as a lawyer]. So that's it. That's all the $ there was. My son will have to wear his short pants and if anybody wants to get in touch with me, they are going to have to do it by email because my phone picked yesterday of all goddamn days to stop working.

(2) I made a bad decision. I had about $50 dollars left in my bank account and I decided that what I needed was a really good laugh. That's right. Sitting at Cube World and feeling sorry for myself, all I could think of was what I needed (not that my son needs pants or a way to get in touch with me.) So I took that money and I bought 2 tickets to the comedy club.

(3) My husband offered to take me out for my favorite meal before the show. At the restaurant, all I wanted was to go into the bathroom and slide down the wall and crumple on the floor. And I didn't even care that it was a public bathroom floor. And maybe I did just that.

(4) The three comedians we saw were the three worst comedians that I have ever seen. I didn't laugh once. And I didn't hear my husband laugh once during the headliner either, so it wasn't like I just wasn't meeting the comedians half way. (I wasn't, but also they were bad.)

(5) My new and improved cough medicine that the PA promised would allow both me and my husband to sleep through the night cost me over $100, and I coughed all through the night.

I know I could go to my husband and tell him that I need $20 so I could go to the Target and get my son some new pants. And he would give me $20. But the point is, I hate that if it weren't for him I would be sitting here in poverty and that frightens the living shit out of me and also pisses me off because I worked so hard over the last ten years to secure my future.

(6) My ex-husband just emailed and said that my son wants to stay with him (even though it is my day). And that is the worst news of all.

Today is a better day.

Fried Zucchini

I saw this picture at msnbc.com earlier this week and I thought, "Mmmm fried zucchini." Turns out its a pile of ancient bones. But I still want some fried zucchini.

Funk Day in Funk Town

Today I am having a big funkorama. Today it is Funk Day in Funk Town.

Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time there is only one visitor to the Cube World stage at Funkapolooza. Today of all days, I, the Princess of Funk Town, like those odds. This is because (oh dear God it has come to this), I have really bad (and I mean horrific) gas. The curry soup I tried to make last night, the sinus and cold medication and the narcotic cough syrup have all blended together to create a downright toxic (perhaps poisonous) mixture.

Today, however, today of all days, mere seconds after a particularly hearty fart, the IT guy comes by to add something to my computer. We look at each and we both know - it cannot be ignored. He tells me he will come back.

Festivities in Funk Town are delayed until further notice due to air quality.
So there it is, the fart entry. For the record, I blogged for a whole half of a year before I went there. Anyway, the point is, I am in a supreme funk and it has nothing to do with the fact that I scared away the IT guy. Funk Town needs some serious fucking fireworks (other than the ones coming out my ass) to jolt me out of this funk.

I am sorry, we will not talk about gas again.

What next? And why isn't it happening fast enough?

No, the title does not refer to the relief efforts in Port-au-Prince. Brad and Angelina are on it. The Red Cross is also on it. There is no humor to be found in a disaster area that can be seen from outer space. Much like I am sure you have done, I hugged my loved ones a little longer and thought about how fragile we are (Sting may have said that first) and how your life can be completely uprooted and turned on its head in just one day. Accordingly, considering such thoughts, I do find the following appropriate . . .

----------------------------------

I have been thinking a lot lately about what it would look like if I was fully living and loving my life.

I have been thinking that, if money and long term planning was not a consideration, I would tell my husband to secure that offer in Thailand. I could write all about it on Decisions on Margaritas, Thailand Edition. The move would be an extraordinary adventure and I could focus on the two things that are really important to me, my husband and my son. And I would have all the time in the world to explore and read and write.

As the law job rejections continue to roll in, I start to feel less and less like a lawyer. The knowledge is slipping away. The drive to get out there and be a part of the business world is slipping away.

Yesterday, however, I was invited to attend a meeting and at that meeting we discussed a law. The particular law was a very important part of my former practice. For the first time in a very long time, I felt alive in a way I had forgotten I could feel alive. A spark fired and I remembered how great it felt to be a lawyer sometimes.

I don't miss billable hours. I don't miss grumpy partners. But I really do miss practicing law. Right now, I just don't know what to strive for, but I do know that feeling numb isn't living.

In my 20s and 30s, the answer was always at the bottom of a pitcher of margaritas. But then again, that's how I ended up deciding I wanted to go to law school. 50K debt and a lay-off later . . . I need a margarita!

PSA

This is a pubic service announcement. Yes, you read right. I have a friend who is a securities attorney and, instead of sending out a public offering circular to all the important investors, he sent out a pubic offering. In an act of solidarity in light of his giant screw up, all of his friends determined that, from here on out, pubic would be used in place of public.

Anyway, the announcement. Home Depot is going to stop carrying Ralph Lauren paint. This is unacceptable. For one thing, even when you tell yourself that you are not going to buy the Ralph Lauren paint just because it is from Ralph Lauren, you always end up picking a color from the Ralph Lauren collection. You know it's true. That collection is quite simply the greatest paint color collection ever. For a second thing, Home Depot is going to replace the Ralph Lauren paint with Martha Stewart paint. Really? Speaking of securities law - didn't she serve jail time for a little insider trading? I will not have her paint on my walls.

When I am done, the bedroom is going to be Ralph Lauren Sanctuary blue. Swoon. And do you know what I have noticed. My husband doesn't give a rat's ass what colors the walls are. All he knows is that this means he is moving furniture. But I really have a talent for this stuff. My living room is the most gorgeous shade of off-white. Whenever anyone visits they exclaim, "My goodness, that off-white! That is the most gorgeous shade of off-white." And I say, "I know, Ralph Lauren has a whole collection of off-whites. I will help you pick one out at my reasonable hourly rate." (Because even though I am not practicing law, I still like to think of my time at my former reasonable hourly rate.)

Hey, wait a minute. Isn't a Sanctuary where they keep the crazy people? Okay, F for name. But run out and get your Ralph Lauren color swatches now! They can be mixed into the Behr paint later.

Weekend Treat

These hexagonal glass drawer pulls come in a bunch of delicious colors at houseofantiquehardware.com. When new furniture is out of the budget, I use these to add flair to the old stuff. I like the opaque milkiness of the one pictured, and there are black ones that have a nice art deco feel.

The other thing I enjoy about hardware is that it helps tie together the mishmash that is our gingerbread house, my mid mod furniture and accessories, and my mom's Calico Corners furniture.

Night on the Bathroom Floor.

I spent last night on the bathroom floor (much like many nights in college, but that's a different blog entry) because my son threw-up again and again and again.

I think he has the botulism.

I, myself, have a bad cold. Yesterday I took 2 Dayquil and (1) completely lost my appetite, and (2) spent the day in a wonderful these fuckers aren't bothering me at all today haze. Love the Dayquil.

By dinner time, and now on the NyQuil, I still had no appetite. I decided to heat up some Spaghetti-Os for my son. By mistake, I had picked up the Spag-Os with franks. Being a fan of tubular meat, I decided to try a bite. (Oh the hits I am going to get for typing "tubular meat" but I am talking about salami, pepperoni, hot dogs.) I got my bite, with frank, and "EW!" I actually cringed because it was so incredibly, horribly disgusting.

Six hours later, my son is tossing and turning and moaning. He comes to me and says he is going to throw-up, and promptly throws up. Again and again and again. Lesson learned: When something is incredibly, horribly disgusting, do not feed it to your child.

(P.S. Love that the google blogger spell check is fairly limited, but recognizes NyQuil.)

Aero Bars

My husband gets back from his trip tomorrow, which included a jaunt in Canada. Do you know what that means? Aero bars - only the best chocolate bar ever.

Do you know why all the Canadians are so pleasant? Because they have Aero bars.

There is a wikipedia entry dedicated to the Aero. I dare you to read it and not determine that you want to move to Canada. Or, in the alternative, send your husband to Canada to get some. (You don't want to be in Canada right now - chilly.)

With Pineapples, For Crunch

My son was in the living room watching Worst Chefs in America. While I welcome any chance to bond with him, if I add any more reality t.v. to my current lineup, I'm just going to feel dirty. I guess I don't really watch that much. I watch the Real Housewives (all cities - but I am getting a bit tired of Atlanta), Million Dollar Listing and The City. (But that doesn't even really count because I just watch that for Olivia's jewelry. Oh and the feud between Olivia and Erin is delicious.) But that's it. And, of course, American Idol.

When my husband called last night, he asked if we were really going to take the time to watch American Idol this season. Take the time away from what? Our extensive schedule building houses for Habitat for Humanity? Cooking? Talking to real live human beings such as friends and relatives?

Anyway, I decided to watch a couple minutes of the Worst Chef show just to make sure, you know, that it was appropriate viewing for my son. For the very first show of the season, the contestants thought that they were supposed to make their very best dish for the judges. What they didn't know was that the judges were going to pick the very worst chefs to continue on in the competition.

This dear sweet attorney (laid-off attorney? How else would she have time to do the show?) placed her very best dish in front of the judges. She explained that it was her signature pasta and olive dish with . . . oh this is good . . . with "pineapples for crunch!"

She was so sincere about her pineapples that it was just priceless. (And, really, are pineapples crunchy? Water chestnuts - yes. Pine nuts - yes. Pineapples - not so much). But I do truly appreciate this girl and think she would be someone I could hang out with and share a few margaritas. With salt on the rim, for crunch!

Navy Stockings - Always Appropriate!

(1) I interviewed at the firm with the lady who my husband dated. And may I just say, my husband has excellent taste in women! They sent me an email that said they would be making a decision this month.

(2) Regarding the job that was posted in this city, in my area of the law - Already got the rejection from that one even though two heavy hitters in the law world called on my behalf.

(3) The new year was like a break in a fever - there were two other jobs posted in this city in my area of the law, both great in-house counsel positions. I have already been to step 1, the screening process, for one of the jobs.

As we all know, the screening process is mostly to make sure that the candidate doesn't drool and can make eye contact and can dress themselves appropriately. Since I didn't fall asleep during my screening interview, I can assure you that there was no drooling, and I didn't roll my eyes or look away when anybody talked to me. HOWEVER, dress appropriate fail. I am sure that I looked super snazzy for the interview in my black coat dress with navy stockings (oops). Why do I even own navy stockings?

Regarding the other, I have already hit up the person I know there, but have heard nothing further yet. That one is a national job search process (read: will take a very long time and put me up against 1000s of additional applicants.)

Let All the Clowns Roll Away

When we were a family with 2 good incomes, we found a fantastic house that was comfortably within our budget. Its main benefit is that it faces a busy park. I can watch the people come and go at all hours of the day and night. I'm a big city girl and I love the sounds and the commotion. Now that we are a family where one of us has a salary at or near the poverty level, the living expenses aren't so comfortable.

We recently brought out some additional furniture so that the visiting relatives could sit with us in the living room. (Apparently, they don't like to be kept in the basement.) This required us to put one of the chairs facing the window out to the park, rather than facing the t.v. (I know. Can you imagine? We were all thrown off for a good while.)

The chair we happened to put facing the park was my mom's that she had covered in that yellow and red floral fabric that you would totally recognize if you were ever in a Calico Corners in Texas in the early 90s. And, of course, she got the coordinating red with yellow floral arm chairs to match. These go not at all with my mid-century modern decor, but my main memory of my mom is of her curled up in that yellow with red chair (not the red with yellow chair), glass of wine at her feet.

Last night, I turned on the t.v. and sat in my mom's yellow with red chair. Finding it very hard to turn my head Linda Blair style to watch the t.v., I decided to turn off the t.v. and the lights and put on the Ray Lamontagne. I sat there in the dark, listening to music, watching the snow fall outside and the cars go by and the joggers run in the park, jogging even though it was snowing because people in this city are fucking nuts that way. [No outdoor exercise to commence for me unless the temp is 60 or above. No wind. And Sunny. With 10 new songs for the iPod. And then only at high-noon.]

It was perfect. I just let myself sit there at peace.

When I allowed myself to start stressing again, the first thing I thought of was that there was no possible way we could lose this great house and I had to do everything I could to help keep it. Then I started to feel overwhelmed. I haven't put anything in retirement or the college fund for over nine months now. I have discovered that 1921 jeans fit perfectly and aren't cheap. The heels have fallen off my boots, my sweaters are all pilly, my son's pants all too short - none of which have a place in the budget for replacing. I want out of the burden. I'm starting not to love this house.

As a side note, track 10 on Ray Lamontagne's Trouble does not state "let all the clowns roll away." It's "let all the clouds roll away." Frankly, I still prefer to think of it as all the damn clowns rolling away.

Weekend Treat - The MacBeth Collection

At The MacBeth Collection, you can pick from a wide variety of tins shaped like vases, bins and buckets. Then you pick from their 100+ patterns to put on the tin. You can even get it monogrammed.

Because winter came early and came hard, I thougt this vase was particularly cheery.

Happy Weekend.

www.themacbethcollection.com

The Land of Kate Spade and Starbucks

My husband has an opportunity to work in Thailand. I know, I had to Google Map it too.

My first thought was oh hell to the no. It's a 20 hour event to get to Thailand, and part of that is by rickshaw. The flight alone is something like 16 hours. I suspect that if you put that many people in a sealed tube for 16 hours, the result is something like what happens in Lord of the Flies. Tribes are formed, leaders elected, clothes lost in favor of loin cloths, people finally exiting the plane and signaling for other life with a conch shell.

But then I started to think about it and did a little research. (1) There is both Kate Spade and Starbucks in Thailand. (2) I love pad thai. (3) There is an American International School over there so my son wouldn't even have to learn Taiwanese. (4) NO MORE FILING.

There is just one slight little itty bitty problem. I am quite sure my son's dad wouldn't go for me taking him away to Thailand for a year. Or maybe he would. How great of an experience would that be? Eight year olds love international travelling experiences, right? I'm sure its very high on their list of fun things to do right after Wii and burp-talking.

It's pretty much settled in my mind. If I don't find a new lawyer job by the time my son is out of school for the summer, we go to Thailand. I am sure that I can convince my ex-husband (who hates me, by the way) that it is a great idea to take our son out of the country for a year.

Housekeeping

When my husband called, I told him that I had cleaned the toilets. He laughed at me. See if that ever happens again.

In case you ever plan on visiting (or, because I announced to the world wide web that my husband is away, coming over to rob the place), I can assure you that the place is fairly clean - despite my adomesticity. (I made that word up - it means I don't clean.) I had only been dating my husband for three weeks when I came home to find him on his hands and knees cleaning my townhouse floor. My reaction was (1) well, that's embarrassing, and (2) will you marry me?

I Am So Not Sorry

I came back to Cube World pumped for the New Year. New Year hear me roar. I shall knock my filing obligations out of the park and hence much accolades, bonuses and career advancement will ensue. Or not.

Note to Supervisor: Do not send out apology e-mails on my behalf to our clients. You may be my supervisor, but you do not have the right to speak for me. I don't think that anybody really believed that waterboarding and/or arbitration would ensue if they didn't get the documents back to us on time.

Home Alone 5

My husband is away on a two week business trip.

I’m not such a fan of staying alone at night in the house. I don’t sleep because I am convinced that every single sound means that someone is lurking outside the windows. My trepidation was only exacerbated by the break-in that was across from our house one evening at around 8:30 p.m. when all the neighbors were home.

I would be 100% A-Okay to spend the night alone in the house if I had a dog. My husband, however, thinks that he is allergic to dogs. I think that his watery eyes and sneezing when we are around dogs is really a psychosomatic reaction and that he just doesn’t want a dog.

He keeps pointing out that we have an alarm system. Hello? If that ever goes off, that merely tells me that someone is already in my house. Too late. Game over.

So I am left to protect myself with the hammer placed strategically under the bed Sharon Stone ice pick style. I also wear my ugly pajamas because if I happened to be faced with a robber / rapists, maybe if I am in the flannel Nic and Nora Target pajamas, he’ll just take the flat screens and move on. Although, I would probably chase after his ass if he tried to take my t.v. in the kitchen.

It’s going to be a really long two weeks.

Onion Plane Man

Why is it that the people who fly first class these days look like they couldn’t put two nickels together to ride the bus (or however much the bus costs)?

I am stuck in coach, always in close proximity to the guy who has decided that his one personal carry-on is going to be a foot long hoagie with extra raw onions. I sort of have this thing about food. I really believe that it should be a single sensory experience. I don’t like to smell food, and I absolutely don’t like to hear people eating food. But that’s another story.

This time, it was the guy directly behind me that decided to open his onion hoagie about an hour into the flight. I could see my husband tensing up when he could tell that I smelled the onions, wondering if I was going to go bat-shit crazy or ape-shit crazy, or, possibly, ignore the whole fiasco if I was engrossed enough in the US magazine. Well, no amount of “news” about Charlie Sheen and his shenanigans in Aspen could divert me from the smell taking over the airplane.

I asked my husband if he had a plastic spoon. I could tell by the look on his face that he thought I was going to use said spoon to maim or otherwise threaten the onion man. Which was quite hilarious. A plastic spoon?

No, I needed a plastic spoon because I was teething. That’s right, teething. Something that the dentist did during my 2hr/$900 visit caused my wisdom teeth to move and want to break free. My dentist tells me that I have an unusually large mouth and that he probably won’t need to take them. Anyway, right now, it just feels really good to chew on plastic spoons. It’s also just a classy look.

For some reason, my husband was not packing plastic spoons. Frankly, if he had been, I highly doubt he would have handed one over. But I swear I had no thoughts of maiming onion man with a plastic spoon. My teeth were taking precedent over his outrageous insensitivity.

On the plane ride back, there was actually no onion man. I sat back to enjoy a little nap, but first decided to try a little of the hand cream that the sales lady at Nordstrom insisted I take. And do you know what happened? I became that lady. I became the lady that stunk up the plane with hand cream.

Bright Lights, Big Ass

Bright Lights, Big Ass is the funniest book I have ever read. I finished it on the plane today and I went ahead and just started to reread it, it was that good. (Also, if you fly United Airlines and get seat 3C, there is no under the seat space ahead of you for your bag. You have to put your Kate Spade all by itself up in the bulkhead, thus separating you from your MAC lip glass and People magazine when they've left on the stay seated light.)

I have never reread a book in my entire reading history. (Except the once when my university English professor made me reread Jane Eyre because she thought I was missing the point. Stupid Cliff Notes. If they ever make Cliff Notes for Bright Lights, Big Ass, I would highly recommend that you skip them and go right for the book.) You are so welcome Jen Lancaster. Snaps to you!

Sweet Tea

First of all, I love the South. (If I cue a paragraph with "first of all" and then say that I love something, I am going to go off on a rant about something related to that thing.) I really do love a man that can pull off a seersucker suit, and I love when my husband answers me with "yes ma'am" when I ask him to do something. I love how pleasant everyone is. Southerners will make the effort to be to nice to your face, which is more than I can say for people from many other places. I'll take fake pleasantness over surly any day. Although, I don't think they are being fake to your face. I think they really do want to be nice to you when you are standing right in front of them, even if they don't have nice things to say about you when you leave.

There is no mystery, however, why the South has the highest concentration of obese people. It's the food, duh. If it walks on four legs or grows out of the ground, the proper way to prepare it is deep fried. And the sweet tea. Holy fuck. We were at a BBQ restaurant with my in-laws and we all ordered sweet tea. It was so sweet that it could substitute as pancake syrup, and the straw stood straight up in the glass from the viscosity of it. The sweet tea is served in a glass that, if you were allowed to take it home, you could throw it in the yard with the chickens and use it as a kiddie pool. (The South also seems to have a large proportion of fine dining establishments that offer souvenir cups.)

After my in-laws had finished half of the sweet tea [2 liters?], the waitress came around to refill the glasses. Everyone took a sip and looked very confused. My brother-in-law called the waitress back and explained to her that something was wrong with the tea, that it was, in fact, "nasty" (and thereby also demonstrating his ability to use his big words). The severely misguided waitress had refilled the cups half full with - are you ready for this because it is sheer horror - regular tea. Damn her. What was she trying to do? Save our lives?

Tomorrow, I head home to a place where people will jog in a blizzard, demand organic produce and free range chickens, and can tell you the proper recycling method for any variety of plastic. I guess someone in America needs to be doing it to make up for all the people in the South who aren't. On behalf of them, thank you. Now I need to get back to my sweet tea because that stuff is fucking fantastic.